


the stars welcome him home

by scrambled



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Reincarnation, self-indulgent shitshow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21933094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrambled/pseuds/scrambled
Summary: YOU REMEMBER, DON'T YOU?REMEMBER THAT NONE OF THIS IS REAL.AND THAT YOU, YOURSELF, HAVE NO PLACE IN THIS STORY.(but there he flickers in your periphery, in all of his lonesome glory.and you can't help but flick your tongue over your lips, a long forgotten hunger comes prowling from within you.)
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	the stars welcome him home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [have you heard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798602) by [peradi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi). 
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w: mild violence and gore
> 
> here we go, folks! so, this is my first fic here. i would very much appreciate constructive comments on how to improve :^)

**SHE DREAMS OF DEATH; **of claws digging into her skin, puncturing holes and a crushed rib cage as the pressure begin to shatter her bones into chips.

Her heart is hammering too fast in her chest, as if it is a jack rabbit running away from its predator with the age old single-minded need to survive. But there is no way out, not when the teeth have already sunken into her skin, claws digging into her flesh and she can feel- see her blood mixing with the whites of its saliva. They bubble bright red into lukewarm pink. And she wants to scream, mouth opening wide in fear instead of agony but there’s no voice coming out of her. Instead, she— 

.

.

— wakes up to the unfamiliar sound of low buzzing engine mixed with a blood-curdling scream. Her legs– they move on their own accord, stuck to this ancient programming within every sentient being; _ fight and survive _. Her voice is ripped from her throat so forcefully out of need, she didn’t realise she was the one screaming in the first place. It sounded distorted to the point of being unrecognisable; it is filled with a bone-chilling fear that is impossible for anyone to ignore.

That night, MW-4200 acts as if she was being tortured by the darkest of sith.

It takes four of her bunk mates to stop her from thrashing about and for her to be silenced. Their hands clasped readily onto her limbs, some putting too much pressure to just subdue her, foolishly thinking that perhaps the pain will remind her where she is, the reality of her situation. It does not remind her of reality. Because reality to her was piercing claws and large teeth, her blood leaking out and she is _dying_ _dying dying_— 

Reality was not the low buzzing engine that accompanies her to sleep every night.

Reality was not having an assigned number and being told to pick up a gun and where to shoot.

Reality was not being grouped with unwanted children (_stolen _ , her mind echoes through her broken screams, _ they were stolen- they were never unwanted _), huddled together and through gritted teeth, endure together.

And the dream, it reminds her that reality was more than what she was given. It only makes her scream louder because she was dying, had died so young and here she was in a waking nightmare.

She hears a small voice calling out in a loud whisper, “42! Be quiet! The officers-”

It is a futile attempt at trying to be quiet, to not mitigate the issue further.

But the damage is done: MW-4200 is marked as defective the moment an officer charges in to find their bunk room in disarray and all eyes point to her, still twitching, eyes red and raw with fresh tears staining her pallid face. 

.

.

Night terrors were not a common thing among them. Because, truly, what is there to be terrified of?

They were forgotten children, sold by their mothers because they were unwanted. Here, in the First Order, they are wanted. Here, they are needed for a greater purpose.

Or, at least, that’s what they keep hammering into MW-4200’s mind.

Reconditioning is a painful process. MW-4200 has to pretend she is a clean slate, undyingly loyal towards the Order and that she is no longer defective. The truth of the matter is, MW-4200 learns how to lie when reality for her breaks into shards of dreams- memories of _ before. _When she sleeps, they come to her in fragments and it feels like she is coming home when home had never existed. Not for MW-4200, at least.

Here is another truth: 42 is still just a child and these men are older, sterner and far more smarter than she is. They can easily see a snake slithering out honey-sweet lies, their eyes gleaming with cruelty and a sharpness to it that MW-4200 would find herself inwardly flinch but stalwartly kept her posture as still as she could. A ghost of a smile that wasn’t there before, plastered itself onto her face as she stood still and let their eyes wander about her, assessing her worth.

A mistake. The Order never teaches their troopers how to smile. But they find her to be a curious little thing, eager to bend her back for the order for someone so young. 

_ This should be the norm _, they think as they watch her perform tricks for them. Repeating a mantra hammered into her again and again and again- that she is worthless, that she is nothing more than a number, forever loyal and a cog in the machine.

(Her muscle twitches, teeth gritted into a grimace yet the smile sticks to her. Anger consumes her from the inside because she is more than this- she should be- she remembers she was more-)

.

.

Reconditioning takes longer than normal. But she is willing to go through it rather than dying defying against.

(She heard the screams of older troopers before her. Saw their bodies being carried off, head bouncing to the beat of the soldiers steps as she caught glimpses of their unmoving eyes, completely void of life.)

MW-4200 is not the first defective soldier they had, nor would she be the last.

When reconditioning is complete (her mind a blank void: there is nothing but her purpose which is to serve the First Order. A voiceless scream echoes in the back of her mind, telling her that _ she is more than this, she was _ \- before being squashed quickly because _ survival _demands her to do so), MW-4200 comes back to her bunker with blank eyes and a ghost of a smile that didn’t exist before this. 

.

.

“Maya,” A voice whispers, lovingly almost. It is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, the sweet warmth surrounding her. 

The ghost of lingering touches. Welcoming. Warm. She searches for it, wanting more.

“Maya.” The voice echoes out, almost as if it was floating away from her. But this time, it is cold and it confuses her. There was adoration once. Now, it’s gone.

(Oh, where did it go?)

Her heartaches and she wakes up with wet cheeks.

.

.

“Defect,” is a nickname that Ones decides to give her after her breakdown. While she was taken away for reconditioning, her bunk mates were not spared. With one person down, their training becomes harsher and they stick out like a sore thumb. An ineffective machine with a missing cog.

But, Ones is the competitive kind. The kind who wouldn’t take failure for an answer. He takes her absence in stride, opting to put in more effort to ensure the machine works as well as it should, and punishes her when she comes back.

At first, MW-4200, being the blank slate she is, did not mind. Ones isn’t worth her time. Fighting against him does not benefit the First Order. She pays no mind to it, her head still empty and dripping of dreams. They come in fragments- a sense of déjà vu consumes her every night and confuses her each waking morning. Puzzle pieces slowly starting to fit (Maya and it was once filled with love- someone had loved her before, her!) and soon that ghost of smile becomes a characteristic only known to MW-4200.

There is a startling realisation that she is different from the rest of these children. She remembers a name, not a number.

_ Maya _ echoes out in her dreams each night and she grabs onto it with a possessiveness of a stingy child with an expensive toy. 

_ This is mine_, she thinks, tracing out the name on her palm, _ Mine_. 

MW-4200, after reconditioning, is slowly adopting an identity of her own.

But MW-4200 is still defective to her squadron. She has become an unfamiliar thing, from_ comrade and one of us _to an _ empty blank slate with a smile _ to something else entirely, one with sharp smiles and gleaming eyes. No longer do they recognise her as one of their but… a defect. A physical mark of failure caused not by them collectively but by her lonesome self.

Ones is not the kind to accept failure. So, naturally, he punishes her instead.

.

.

(MW-4200 spends her nights dreaming of _Maya_.

She dreams of _Maya's_ sharp smiles and glib ones.

She dreams of _Maya_ whispering out sweet nothings and empty promises.

She dreams of _Maya's_ words upon words upon words, creating people, buildings, worlds. A world just for her, where she is in control.

Where she is _Maya_ and she was more than just MW-4200.

And she wakes up wanting more.)

.

.

“Defect.” Ones says, dark hard eyes staring down on her. His arms are crossed as he stands tall before her. "You're weak. _Useless_. Look at what you've done."

He gestures towards the broken parts scatter on top of the sleek white floors. They were once useful when they were in her hands, as she carried them across the halls in a hurried manner. The mechanics had needed them and she was assigned to learn from them, take orders from them- they seek to see what she excels at. See where they could place her in their grand scheme of things. MW-4200- no, Maya (she started calling herself that in private, a swell of pride fills her when she mouths it out to herself), is eager to know where she excels as well. She remembers she liked creating things from _before _and she wonders if she still has a penchant for them even now.

But she had slipped, her feet hat collided an unknown object and she was sent spiraling to the floor. A loud clatter echoes in her ears amidst the low humming of the engine.

Ones and his friends were the ones who saw her. Of course, no one else is around.

He kneels down to face her, a small frown forming on his face. She still smiles, it is faint but it is still there and apparent in a sea of unsmiling children and faceless troopers. Ones clicks his tongue, "You should've never come back. A defect will always be defective." 

He picks up a broken piece, it has sharp edges and it shines against the white lights reflecting against it as Ones examines it. Twisting and turning it around his hand.

Maya only smiles. It's a sharp smile, with gritted teeth and her fingers twitch slightly. Maya is not used to submission, the feelings of anger and unfamiliarity is strong despite the fact she has been submitting to the First Order before she could even learn how to speak. Now, _survival_ has to remind her to be docile, sometimes it demands her to. 

"I am not a defect." She says in an attempt to be civil. She knows she needs to reestablish herself within the group, needs to reassure them that she wouldn't be the glitch within the system again, but, instead, she accidentally spills out, "I am Maya."

Ones blinks at her. The silence between them is filled with the low humming of the ship's engine. Then he laughs, a cruel and callous one, with a joyous tone exclaims, "You are defective! Defect! Defect!" 

His voice is loud and deep but to her ears they are mixed with shriller ones, his eyes are foreign to her- dark cold eyes superimposed onto light and cruel ones. Her fingers twitches and an ancient anger consumes her from the inside- her legs move on their own accord, with _anger _(a righteous one, one that screams _how dare he, how dare she, how **dare** they_-) overpowering _survival_.

Like we said before, MW-4200 is not the first defective soldier they’ll have nor will she be the last.

(They take her away, again. But this time, she isn’t limp and weak- still too confused with what the dreams mean. This time, she fights back with such feral energy. Teeth clamping onto Ones neck, attempting to rip everything out when they drag her away.) 


End file.
